


Translation

by antisnotabug



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-27
Updated: 2015-04-27
Packaged: 2018-03-26 02:54:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3834355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/antisnotabug/pseuds/antisnotabug
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wilson has a question for how Wesley works.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Translation

Wesley wasn't one for attachment. There were many practical reasons to remain above that kind of thing, all of which he could rattle off in seconds. Truthfully, he didn't need the reasons. He never had. He didn't choose to shirk attachment, the concept simply alluded him altogether and he was grateful for it. Yet with that said, as his hand rested on the leather seat of the limo and his fingers lightly caressed the material, he had to admit to himself a fondness for this car. Wesley practically lived in it these days, constantly shuffling from meeting A to meeting B. There were worse places to spend time.

"Can I ask you something, Wesley?"

He looked up at the man sitting next to him. His employer. Wesley supposed that in his own head, he could refer to the man as Mr. Fisk, but the habit of leaving him unnamed was hard to shake. Mr. Fisk had some personal question on his mind. Wesley grew to read the man very easily. How others found his employer so inscrutable was a mystery to him. Maybe it was fear that blinded them. The titan of a man next to him withdrew, shifting and fidgeting uncomfortably. Wesley nodded, lowering his head in such a way that his eyes did not become obscured by his glasses. "Of course." The idea of Mr. Fisk asking his permission for anything almost made him laugh.

"You remember, a while back... when you found out that your duties as translator were... more for aesthetic?"

Fisk chose his words as carefully as he ever did. Wesley looked down with a small grin. On someone who wasn't above such things, the look could have been sheepish. "I do, sir." His employer did not at first divulge that he was as fluent in as many languages as Welsey. Only after a few weeks of acting in the position did Fisk call him out and ask him why he was softening the blow of his international business partners' words. It was rare for Wesley to get caught with his pants down and it pulled an honest answer out of him. He had done it for previous employers and found it was a smart move, as men in such power tended to take harsh words poorly, often punishing the messenger. 'Fear,' Fisk had simplified Wesley's response. The look he had then, lips turned down in what might have been sadness, he mirrored now in the limo. 

"You still do it." He shook his head at himself. "I mean... you still choose... a kinder translation than what is true. Even though you know I understand every word." His eyes flickered between the window and his hands. After taking a breath, Fisk at last met Wesley's gaze. "Do you still fear me?"

"No." Wesley surprised himself with how quick his answer came. That was perhaps a stupid response. Everyone feared his employer. Everyone had every reason. Yet Wesley knew better than everyone. Fisk could be appeased. He could be reasoned with, talked to, as long as you chose the right words. Now, for example, Fisk's frown slowly melted away. For as much as he inspired it, fear was never what Fisk what after. 

"Then why? Why keep up the pretense? It's been... making our partners unhappy, having their words twisted. You know this. Why continue to do it?"

It was Wesley's turn to look out the window. Now the answer didn't spring to his lips. Normally, he didn't have to choose his words, his natural responses were what his employer wanted to hear. This, he was uncertain. After a brief pause, he faced his employer again. "I believe that anyone in my position would do the same. If we are to keep up the charade, it should be done properly."

Again, silence reigned in the limo for a moment. Then, Fisk grinned in a muted but furtive way. "And what does that translate into?"

Wesley chuckled, once more surprising himself. Their industry wasn't exactly filled with comedians, only clowns, yet Fisk had a way of making Wesley laugh. A rare thing, he welcomed it. Just like it had when they first had this conversation, Fisk's openness inspired Welsey to be open in turn. "I... Just because those fools choose to speak to you so... savagely, it doesn't mean I have to."

Fisk's smile became more broad. That response didn't need any further translation. Wesley smiled back, before distracting himself with one of the liquor bottles in the limo's minibar. Wesley didn't grow attached. It wasn't in his vast skillset. Yet growing used to something, or someone, could be different. Could be achievable, if he hadn't done so already. He settled into the leather of his seat. Yes, he could grow used to this.


End file.
